x v i i i

              ….he supposes it an expected response, that. It’s his fault, naturally, for feeding the fires with acknowledging the foul language to begin with. Jolly seems the sort accustomed to running his mouth, freely and openly, like he’s been at it too many years by now to stop it. But, that isn’t Terrence’s fault. This man - if one could truly say a thing like that - is nothing but a bully. The historian listens, watches the suave manner he carries with laughter, wearing haughtiness as a second skin. The sight, the sound… all plays itself as pitiful, still. Not matter the anxiousness it derives, tramples on or the lightheaded fog stirring - Terrence has had enough.                 His stride is easy enough. Blame it on adrenaline, really. Walking directly to him and not so kindly placing down the two books once clutched to his chest onto the side table. His jawline is clenching, the dead give-away to anger. He takes a deep breath. 

               “We could remain here, talking about heritage and people by their culture having more openness and kindness than others; families we’re born into, personality types; but I am not in the mood for defending what people like you enjoy trampling on. Your company is a lost cause, and that’s a shame. Intelligence and capability is wasted on you. That’s the true tragedy here.” His heart has become pained; it won’t stop beating so - worsened by the near unblinking stare, the scowl. The hatred he feels so suddenly… 

                “If you’re not here to work, you’re fucking around; so what do you want, Jolly?” Whatever it is, it can’t be well. 

                    “I beg to differ. My capability and intelligence as you so kindly put it are the things this island is built on the shoulders of. I’m just rather not in the habit of dressing things up in shades of milk and honey to spare other people’s feelings. You will find it gets you nowhere of any importance in life--and it certainly won’t get you any closer to Signor Nicolas’ bed, I’ll have you know.” And with Jolly at the hilt, the knife always has deeper to sink. The reaction is expectedly volatile, deliciously frustrated, and Terrence is wonderfully foolish in rising to the alchemist’s barbed tongue. The nobility of self defense holds precious little worth--Jolly ony seems infinitely more pleased with the fire licking its way into those charmingly furious eyes and that mild young face. Such spirit! Such drive! All but wasted on a man that devours it all with so much wicked glee. The Moon laughs over the thud of hardbacks clattering upon the desk, fire bursting brilliant and blue from the palm of one dressed hand to warm the eye of his cigar.

                     “But I can’t blame you for all the trappings of your naivety when you’ve not lived even half as much life as some of us have.” Though Jolly’s face looks perfectly untravelled by time, or age, or experience, always at odds with the wisdom of his voice. That fire-kissed hand waves, dismissing its magic so that it can pull a collection of papers from one drawer hiding away at his side of the table.

               It does make his blood curdle - knees to lock in place, a paled cast to his complexion before sensations of heat manifests itself along every prominent facet of Terrence’s face. Well. He has heard some gossip, been privy to glances persons make in regard to this associate of Father Nicolas; none so favorable. And as his first interaction would have it, Terrence would be inclined to agree. To a certain extent. Benefit of the doubt be damned but, he too would not make himself a target for this man’s childish amusements.                 Even if he doesn’t directly look his way. That cold laughter is a little much to bear, and Terrence is busy collecting himself to pay him such direct attention. There’s just so little comfort to be found in clutching the books in arms.                “I don’t know what you’re talking about; I have nothing but the utmost respect for Father Nicolas and his work. Perhaps it that you’re just such a snake that you can’t see anything actually genuine in people and their interactions? Of course, as the gossip would have it.” And he’s heard enough. He’s looked into this man enough. But perhaps… it would be low to stoop to his level. Despite riled nerves, the Historian holds his tone assertively, his stance austere. 

               “I feel bad for you. A life so desolate that this is how you get your kicks?”

               “Oh? Is that what we’re calling it?” Laughable, though the sort of rise the other comes to is precisely the expected, the assumed--the wanted, even. The gent bristles at so much as the mention of that dreamy eyed so and so from the mainland, transparently fond and more than enough to hook the alchemist’s smile all the wider as the other makes their attempt at rebuttal (to not much success--Jolly has always sunk his teeth too deep.) “Sticking your head in the sand doesn’t mean everyone else is beyond seeing the truth of the matter. Your so called respect is the very least of what you fancy giving that man, I’m relatively sure.”

             He scoffs. The sound is haughty, proud. Amused. “I never said I didn’t see Roberto for what utilitarian value he has. He’s been a valuable cog in the machine of my workings more than once. But that makes him no less vapid when he wants to be. Too busy thinking about other men, I find.” Or one other man, specifically. One that seems to rub salt in his visitor’s wounds more often than not. Jolly croons on venomously with his laughing voice and his terrible smirk, dark head swept back as a thunderous purr breaks in his chest.

                “You’re rather fortunate that Father Nicolas is a man that’s quite as dense as he is, don’t you think?” The question comes very much out of nowhere; but then, many of Jolly’s observations and ideas for conversation always do. He’s grinning, poisonous as ever and oh so horribly conceited as he leans back in his seat to bask in the Italian sunlight and tips his chin to the sky swimming blue and bright overhead. The shades hide anything of the expression to his eyes, but the cadence of his mocking voice tells just about enough.

              Amusement that is one-sided. A toy curls fingers before balancing atop each digit, one by one. Useless, however requiring minute comprehension to navigate. More than what could be said for the supposed ‘company’ sat audaciously reclined. “I arrived in this cursed place under the impression that my subordinate had been correct in their report to me. Yet, all that I have witnessed is frightened children, suspicious of their own family, a dying old man and now someone who thinks low class spirits could salvage and balm the inevitable passage of time with all their soul.” The toy which once danced were placed away, disregarding lack of ownership. Though entrenched with ennui, the eyes of him blink in direction finally to that man, and a cross made unto his teeth with mild enthusiasm; for a meal considered, albeit desire eludes him.                “Do you honestly think that the Stigmata of La Luna would truly help you? These spirits are faeries. Gnolls. Goblins. Ilk of all the same child’s play; in mythos, in reality. Lowest sorts to be in association with, yet alone enslave oneself to. It is why they feed from you in exchange for what little prowess they possess. And yet, you believed them when they claim power, knowledge. You cannot even help yourself; the combination used for your meals is poor at best, and irritates my senses. Your imitation of youth is almost as insulting as your assumptions. I have found nothing here, except a reminder of man’s folly, of wretched filth masquerading as intellectuals.” Inertia cracks, letting him free finally and, venturing nearer, cants his head upward. 

               “Nothing more than an hubristic, insufferably wretched child.” 

              “Well well,” his voice is purring, awful, and sickeningly sweet in its sudden overtones poisoning its sultry dusk--adding insult to injury and nothing else, just like those keen, laughing eyes of his as the shades slip down the bridge of Jolly’s nose, “that’s a pity. At first glance, you looked like a man of better pedigree than one that runs his spiteful little mouth quite like this. I can’t even say I recall saying anything of such grievous offence to you. Usually, I thoroughly intend it when I do.”

                 Anger. The man reeks of it, whereas Jolly all but swells with the glow of his pride undaunted by the visitor’s sudden hostility--aiming for the throat with his steely words and getting nothing in reply but the alchemist’s wicked smile opening all the wider on that mouth of his. A hum rings free as those moon-kissed eyes blink idly in the light.“If that is what you truly think, then you do not understand the tarocco. My friendly advice is that you keep your opinions to yourself on matters that do not concern you.” Laughing. Deep, throaty, and amused beyond belief as he tilts his head to rest on the knuckles of one gloved hand. “But then what can be said for you? At least my ties to La Luna are real. At least what power it gives me for my cooperation is real. Whereas you...? Hm. Going on some blood-drunk quest for revenge because of what, exactly? Because you were wronged by some nebulous, intangible God that you have never even heard, or seen, or met? That you yourself were a willing slave to before you were even sure of its existence? Please. Don’t preach to me about how much more accomplished and enlightened you are when that’s all you have to show for yourself, vampire.”